Eggiwegs
by Ghilanna Faen Tlabbar
Summary: He does so love his Eggiwegs. Oneshot.


**Eggiwegs**

"Good evening, Mister DeLarge."

There was no need for him to look up. He had been expectantly watching the entrance of the ward for the past half-hour.

"Evenin', my little sister."

He always called her that.

She sets the tray on the table, carefully arranging the covered dishes. He eyes them with interest.

"What've we got tonight?"

"Toast." She removes the top from one plate, the closest to her patient. "Orange juice, broccoli, steak and eggs."

"Eggiwegs!"

Had he been able to do so, she had no doubt that he would have clapped his hands like a little child.

"I do love eggiwegs."

"I know, Mr. DeLarge, that's wh-"

"Alex."

She looks at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Alex, little sister. You should call me that. That's what I am with em and pee."

He inclines his head, somewhat awkwardly. She smiles.

"As I was saying, Alex, that's exactly why you got them. Special orders."

"Special orders for this pishcha? Real horrorshow, that."

"I thought you liked eggs."

He looks at her curiously. "What makes you think I don't?"

"You called them a horrorshow."

"You don't pony, little sister?"

"I'm sorry?"

He rolls his eyes.

"Just dish out the pishcha."

It takes her a moment to realise he means the food. He opens his mouth expectantly as she takes a forkful of the steak.

His dinner continues the same way it had for the past week. He chews away happily, stopping only to open his mouth for more. And, as always, he makes a face at the taste of the orange juice.

"Why can't I have a moloko?" he grumbles, between bites. "It's better than this cal."

She knows enough to take that as an insult, and wrinkles her nose.

"You have something of a reputation, you know. We can't risk anyone slipping you drencrom."

He snorts.

"Drencrom? Oh, nurseywurse, if someone wanted to do me in, a nozh would be the way to go, not drencrom."

She ignores the nickname. "It would be easier to detect a foreign substance in this than in milk. Your treatment is going well; we don't need anything botching it now."

At the word "treatment", a shadow passes through his eyes. She doesn't notice.

"Eggiwegs," he says after a moment, somewhat petulantly. She obliges, switching the last bits of broccoli on the fork for a small pile of scrambled eggs.

"I missed them," he says after his second mouthful.

"Missed who?"

"Not who." He makes a face. "These. The eggiwegs."

"They're nothing special." She feeds him another forkful.

"Au contraire, little sister. Food of the gods."

After a moment, she lays down the fork.

"Why did you miss the eggs, Alex?"

"Like I said," he mumbles, "a real horrorshow."

She thinks for a moment, trying to produce the right words.

"Did they starve you during the...during your...when they treated you?"

He looks at her blankly.

"Why would they do that, little sister?"

"I just thought....I mean...you said you missed the eggs. Eggs are basic. I thought they might've starved you." The words are tumbling out like a flood, one that she is powerless to stop.

He seems not to notice and opens his mouth again. Flustered, she picks up the fork and feeds him another bite of the eggs.

"They didn't starve me," he volunteers unexpectededly. "The pishcha wasn't exactly choodessny, though."

"Oh?"

He gives her another of his inscrutable looks. She directs her attention to a particularly interesting spot on the floor.

"Govoreeting about it is the last thing I want to do."

His tone is cold. She counts the flecks of dust under his bed. The seconds tick by.

"There are still more eggiwegs, little sister." His tone is gentler now. "I can't feed myself, you know."

She picks up the fork again, still not looking at him. There is another silence as he continues eating.

"Besides," he says, as though continuing some hidden conversation, "there wasn't a pretty young devotchka bringing me my pishcha every evening. I suppose I'm lucky this time around."

"What about every morning?"

"Baboochkas," he says dismissively. "Old and withered soomkas, working for the grahzny bratchny."

She looks at him blankly.

"You still don't pony, do you, little sister."

"No, I don't believe so."

"Appypollyloggies." He grins. "I could've been trying to get a bit of the old in-out-in-out and you wouldn't know."

"I suppose that's true."

"I'll just have to make myself more clear next time, won't I?"

She smiles and feeds him the last of the "eggiwegs" he loves so much.

"Yes. I suppose you better had."


End file.
